A Beautiful Poet

[free]

I have put your picture
On my wall
It is a tiny picture
And the wall is so huge

I ask the poet
To talk from the wall
Photographers
Have done a good job

[free]

METAPHOR


When a poet talks in his language own
He uses figures of speech
When at his home he sits alone
The features of poem that teach

There is this lovely thing
Metaphor that is called
A poet embarks on its wing
To tell what is to be told

In his comparisons he says
This thing I see is that
Without the use of like or as
With all the due respect

[free]

The Sweetest Poem

Maybe I'll fall asleep
In your warm embrace
Maybe I'll wake up
Kissed by your soft lips
Maybe I'll ask you
Maybe I'll answer you
You, sweetest of poems
You, who make my body beautiful
My mind fruitful

[Lykren]

The first one's not bad.

[ZacheirII]

...when the Westerner arrived
the seas brewed in filter
the tillage bore fecund to barren
the mills on the mend to heed windy
the Civil had wound affable 'round our Preferred
Valleys descend in tolls they Hades
When Heaven descend...

...the Hanker after fauna began
lechery bestowed gracefully
Maidens merit in effleurage
saturated (their) sanity with opulence
only in time would greed revere, tactile sense detest
Lust marooned median in the Boulevard
and into Hell (they) descend

Babylon's den our beach became
Myriad umpteen must a villain accrue
that He might plunder his own proportion
diurnal demise cast up before Kinfolks start to drown
Nineteenth hole swallow (our) existence
to a descent where Nothing Else Matters

[free]

Thanks, Lykren.

Zacheir, what is this? A Beautiful Poet? :)

[ZacheirII]

And a response to Free...

And Free was my Critic;
sanctum revered with consent
savage of resilience that bore humor
upshot conceived of freewill
that my Critic might be free

Remorse had drowned esteem;
condemned standpoint for espy
revolt that lured in the shakedown
vanquish creamed the silk
overwhelm deadens the remorse

Renascence pins not its hope;
swain might heed distress call
Doxy that luminesce glow on Orchids
debauch the beauty within
the renaissance of a Beautiful Poet

[free]

Thank you, Zacheir. I've just read this poem and I liked it, so, here I share it with you. It is so nice, isn't it?


Once upon a time there was a big white wall — bare, bare, bare,
Against the wall there stood a ladder — high, high, high,
And on the ground a smoked herring — dry, dry, dry,

He comes, holding in his hands — dirty, dirty, dirty,
A heavy hammer and a big nail — sharp, sharp, sharp,
A ball of string — big, big, big,

Then he climbs the ladder — high, high, high,
And drives the sharp nail — tock, tock, tock,
Way up on the big white wall — bare, bare, bare,

He drops the hammer — down, down, down,
To the nail he fastens a string — long, long, long,
And, at the end, the smoked herring — dry, dry, dry,

He comes down the ladder — high, high, high,
He picks up the hammer — heavy, heavy, heavy,
And goes off somewhere — far, far, far,

And ever afterwards the smoked herring — dry, dry, dry,
At the end of that string — long, long, long,
Very slowly sways — forever and ever and ever.

I made up this story — silly, silly, silly,
To infuriate the squares — solemn, solemn, solemn,
And to amuse the children — little, little, little.


Charles Cros: “Le Hareng Saur” / “The Smoked Herring”
Translated from Charles Cros’ French by Kenneth Rexroth

[free]

Beautiful poet
I love your style
The shine of your sonnet
Lightens my lonely sky

Your rhymes are soft
The symbols of your poems
Make me happy in my loft
As if written to solve my problems

[free]

Conductor

He enters the stage
Bows solemnly cheerful
A magic stick in his hand
Draws circles in air
And the stars of music
Start falling all over us

He lifts us up
He brings us down
His head goes up
Face lightened with smile
And the orchestra plays
All wonders of harmony

Lead by his movements
Hunderds of us
Together with his musicians
Go and stay
For as long as the music is on
In that fantastic world
Of a simphony

[free]

Not in my dreams
Not in my imagination
Would you help me to find peace
To prove my qualification

Not in another life
Not in another universe
Would you make me your wife
About this let us converse

Not just passing by
Not only for fun
To be my husband would you try
Could we be happy under this sun

[ZacheirII]

[IN RESPONSE TO FREE...]

Neither dreams nor illusions
wither still for my tutor
that rest might be least granted
complement firmness not license

A reprise of this existence
that splurge our Sphere polluted
with neglect for the suitor
that cease confession to concision

Wander in digress
heaping all rounds of adventure
that betrothal rise not with dawn
that excite may down in the dumps